Marina

the boats rock at their moorings
i can smell the sun on your skin
and all night the sea salt stays
in the tangles of your hair

i stroke the curve of your near thigh
as the morning sun rises
i await your opening eyes

the clouds are moving fast above
clearing to blue skies, pale horizons,
a distant curve stretched water-wide,
and still you lay in dreams,
lulled by the waves of sleep,
while I dream myself wide awake

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Summer Salad

Thunder crashing,
lightening flashing,
people dashing for cover,
the rain so heavy
the road is a running river.

In passing a shop
a perfume wafts out from a doorway
and carries me straight into summer,
coconut oil and vanilla,
with undernotes of soft almond.

My mind’s eye drifts to the margin
where rubbery ribbons of seaweed
lay stranded in foam and soft ripples.
The damp sand is firmer and darker.

The sea has been rough.
Dark violet clouds in the dove grey sky
are gradually clearing.
The sun blazes out in a dazzle,
bouncing on glittering water.

The salt air
and the sand in my hair
make it feel sticky and thicker

Hot sun dries the puddles of rain
on steaming hot tarmac
and I’m back in the town again,
longing for crisp juicy peppers,
freshly cut cucumber flesh, sliced lemons
and the pink thirsty heart of a melon.

On a hot sandy beach,
that burned my feet,
I once sipped a cold margarita
in the cool indigo, lavender shade
of a blindingly white umbrella.

House in the Wind

out on the ledge
the wind stampedes,
bending the trees to the east,
forming newborn dunes on the beach,
as the moon pulls the roaring tide
thundering in on the rocks
and the dark clouds roll above

I don’t want to be inside
I want to ride
I want to spin
I want to throw my arms out wide
and scream

witches may fly here tonight

but if i must go in,
let it be to the ancient house
where the hawthorns bend and bow

let it be through the trembling door
where i left the key before,
where the hearth is built of granite
and the chimneys whistle and moan
and the fire almost gutters out

may the mountains loom as dark sentries,
to shelter the crumbling walls
as the land sinks down in terror,
beneath the quaking floors

may it stand,
as it has for three hundred years,
battling the wind

nothing will die here tonight

After the Storm

 

A storm was above and the wind was intense,
Rattling resistant windows,
It battered against the glass,
Salt patina crazed, obscuring the view.
The sea wall boomed, a dark drum.

The rocks, veiled by mussel shell
Opening wide to the tide,
Lay hidden beneath the wild surface
Of broiling and tumbling water
Turned in a pool of cross currents

The fog horn sang out
Above the deep throated echo of sirens
Who lure sailing men to their sea graves.
The tides of the turn leave us debris,
Strange treasures with rope and mast beams,

Blue glass rolled smooth by long tides,
Smashed shells and well polished pebbles.
Fragments of cuttlefish bone.
After the storm we gather them home
To make decorative frames for our mirrors

All our mirrors face out to the ocean.
Wind chimes of shells hang in the light.
Cuttlefish carved into faces unknown
Hang from blue string on our walls.
The storm did no damage at all.

 

 

Lost Watch

I lost my father’s watch in the sea
When I wandered about on a beach.
It’s well that it rests there,
He wanted an ocean burial,
But the sea was too far out of reach.
We didn’t have time for arrangements,
Time flew by too fast,
but now he is rested at last.
My family heirloom lies on a sea bed of shells,
Corroded by rust,
Informing the fish of the turning of tides
As it drifts back and forth in the currents
Showing it silvered face
round as the full moon, in it’s season.
I lost my father’s watch in the sea.
He would be happy,
But time seems to have stopped for me.
Like a screen on TV,
Gone blank.

Sea Shells

here are we
curled and contained
in this room
high above the breathable sea
bathed in a shaft of moonlight
drifting in dreams
holding on tight as the world turns
our breath swells and sinks with the waves

sea shells follow the tide line below
left behind at the turning
bleached and beached on the white sand

time wears the solid rock to small grains
energy moves from this place to that
nothing is ever the same
but remains
and repeats
and remains
eternal
curled and contained

The Fisherman

why would you go to sea, she said,
when there’s food to be had in the shops ~
to feel the strength of the swelling waves
and to know the threat of the rocks
and to hear the souls in the unfathomed deep
where the creatures of legend drift and roll
and dream of us in their sleep
and to hear the bell of the solemn buoy
and the voice of the fog horn blow
when it sings to us through the seething mists
in the storm as it bellows and grows
and the wild whipping wind
and the timbers’ groan
and to follow the stars in the dark
and to enter the harbour’s sanctuary
and rejoice to be home at last
where we sit to mend our broken nets
while you sit in your safe place at home

because
in the days
under the sun
it’s another story

The Rocking Stone

On Cadair Idris, close by to the bottomless lake of Llyn Cau, I spent the night on a Rocking Stone, with a youthful desire in my heart, to be a Poet Bard. Legend has it that a night on Cadair’s cold flank gives the curse of madness, or the blessings of Seer or Bard. I knew the risk to my mind and the risks of the rocking stone, the balancing of the stone, a balance to be held on a dark night, high up and all alone. I sat and prayed in silence to the moon and stars above, looking up with eyes wide open, alert to the mountain, the rock and the wind that blew in that desolate spot.

The night was long. I came down with the dawn as nothing; an empty vessel waiting to be filled. No-one, nothing at all. Aware that I was very small.

Ten years later, or was it five, and does it matter how old I was, I spent the night on a rock atop a Tor, looking out across a wide open remote moor. I saw the creatures of the night as they scurried about and eyes shining and blinking in the dark. I heard the song of the wind through the rocks. Nothing more. It was enough.

The night was long. I came down feeling I belonged to something though I knew not what. I became a journey begun.

The night I spent on the cliff edge where the wind sings in the grass above granite rock, the waves beat on the rocks below and seven hours became one. Time slowed, or the stars and the moon sped by, who can tell which, the night I sat high on the cliff edge, the moon path spread across the sea, glimmering on water, reaching out to the a far horizon.

The stars, with the moon at the centre of all, moved in a slow ballet of curved motion across the sky, the constellations shone out from the web of night, a rotation eternal, a moving wheel. Beneath me the tide rolled in an out, fast. Time did not stop, it slowed or the world sped up while beauty shone out high above.

Seven hours became one.

If I can, by a shift of my mind, alter seven hours to one could I change one hour to seven and make life longer or can I pull seven hours into one? What is time but illusion? The days of a child are long, a summer an eternity. Seven hours could easily be as seven decades to a shorter lived creature than me. Does a butterfly live six score years and ten in so short a span as a day.

The earth is a rocking stone held in place by the moon while the sun brings it life. Time does not exist. Life and death is all we have and are but we are not bound in time.

We are all finely balanced on the stone. We either fall off or we balance.

This is all I have learned on the Rocking Stone. This is not the end of my journey, a journey I make alone.